


Summer - Variations on Touch

by hellogaywatson



Series: Talk Science to Me [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Companion Piece, Companion to Summer - Assembly, M/M, POV experiment, Science Bros, Science lovers, non-consensual fantasizing, present tense experiment, set during 2012 Avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellogaywatson/pseuds/hellogaywatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was important for both of them.  But let's be honest - it was certainly *more* important for one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer - Variations on Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion to the multi-chapter work [Summer - Assembly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3523220). If you haven't read it yet, Variations on Touch will still probably make sense, but it does reference a lot of Summer - Assembly verbatim as well as relying heavily in some places on the script for the 2012 Avengers film.
> 
> I wrote this for two reasons. One, I noticed that a lot of my favorite fic is written in present tense, and having never used that tense much myself I wanted to see how it felt. Two, I thought a lot during and after writing Summer - Assembly about what it was like to be Bruce.
> 
> For Tony, things more or less went thusly - "Yay, this hot scientist I am into is into me also! My life is consistently awesome!"
> 
> Whereas for Bruce - well, for Bruce it was more like this:

It starts with a handshake.

Not that Stark is the first one to shake his hand. Steve Rogers extends a grip when they first meet that’s warm, friendly, and ultimately empty. _Only word I care about_ , he says, and he’s frightened – not for himself, which makes a nice change anyway, but for everyone else, for anyone within the damage radius. They’ve only just met and Rogers is already placating, keeping things relaxed so that no one has to suffer, so that he doesn’t have to kick it into high gear and protect everyone. But he’s ready, this is obvious. He’s ready, and frightened. It will show again later, from time to time – _Threatening the safety of everyone on this ship isn’t funny._

_No offense, Doc._

Even Director Fury shakes his hand as he thanks him for coming onboard the project. What he really means is _thanks for coming quietly, thanks for not injuring or killing a dozen of my agents and disappearing._ Like this is some big favor Bruce has done for him. Like it was a hard decision to make. _Thank you for asking nicely_ , he hears himself reply. That’s as sarcastic as he’ll allow himself to get until this is over. He’ll just bury himself in the work, thanks, and talk to as few people as possible until they set him back down and he can go back to pretending his life is his own.

Tony Stark shakes his hand without making even the vaguest effort at politeness, following up a compliment on Bruce’s work with an immediate Hulk joke. Bruce isn’t prepared for this. No one has ever had the balls to do this before.

It’s tacky, tasteless, and such a welcome breath of fresh air.

Stark’s grasp is firm and unintimidated, and he sizes Bruce up with a look that holds something very different from the fear he’s used to – curiosity. It’s the look of a scientist, of someone who wants to take him apart to figure out how he works.

That should scare him. That should definitely, absolutely scare him.

He can’t pretend to offer any rational explanation for why it excites him instead.

~*~

The second time Stark actually _asks_ Bruce to touch him.

They stay up late the night before writing a program to execute the gamma trace they need to find SHIELD’s missing technology. Or rather, Stark writes a program and Bruce helps set parameters and mostly watches. Bruce is a genius when it comes to radiation and particle physics, but he can’t code worth a damn.

He’s trying to focus on the job. Not to get suspicious. But the radiation aspect of this work, it’s kid stuff. He could’ve done it when he was college-age. SHIELD doesn’t need him, no matter what they say – anyone with basic knowledge of gamma radiation could get this job done easily and efficiently. He’s overqualified, and the implications of that are deeply unsettling, because if SHIELD doesn’t need him for his scientific knowledge, what did they really recruit him for?

It’s a dark, angry train of thought that he does his best not to get lost in. Instead he focuses on the nearest source of stimulation, which so happens to be Tony Stark.

Bruce listens to Stark’s ample amounts of Nick-Fury-related-bitching. He observes the way Stark mercilessly harangues the middle-aged male agent with the tight, thin lips and calm, serious demeanor whose name he never quite catches. He watches in horrified fascination as Stark teases Natasha Romanoff – in the average set of circumstances this seems like it would be suicidal behavior, but with Stark the agent just rolls her eyes as if this is all routine, just par for the course around here.

He counts himself lucky to have gotten through no effort of his own into Stark’s good graces. Stark never uses Asshole Mode on him, never speaks to him as though he’s stupid or frustrating.  Instead he seems to find Bruce good company, at least enough to joke around with him, even about the things that nobody else would ever dare mention. He has no real filter for appropriateness, but he never crosses a line out of cruelty. Curiosity, yeah, regularly – but he’s not mean-spirited.

And he’s _definitely_ not scared. He zaps Bruce in the ribs with a goddamned electric prod before they’ve even been acquainted for more than an hour _just to see what happens_. That Stark is a genius in his own right doesn’t keep him from being the most self-destructive person Bruce has ever met.

It takes Bruce a little while to put his finger on the name for Stark’s reaction to him, the name for the earnestness and excitement that the totally off-color teasing can’t disguise. Then after hearing Stark go through another round or two of enthusiasm about Bruce’s work, he realizes the word he's looking for is “starstruck.” And he kind of wants to shake Stark by the collar while being all like, “Really? You? Me? _What_?”  Because his enthusiastic fanboy of a new lab partner is _Tony fucking Stark_ and the evidence of his contributions to the world is always blazing away bright enough to shine through at least two layers of t-shirt, so it’s not like Bruce can forget.

This whole scenario is so bizarre - he’s unabashedly grateful that Stark is there, because without him his options for meaningful socialization would be pretty damn bleak, and it would be all too easy to submerge himself in bitter rage at being plucked out of his life and flung into the sky to be SHIELD’s errand boy.

Anyway, the gist of it is that Stark is a welcome distraction. And their first morning together, he manages to make himself even _more_ distracting.

Bruce is already well into Form 2 when he feels Stark’s eyes on him in the lab doorway, watching with pleasant interest. They get to chatting about it and before he knows it Bruce has signed on to be Stark’s amateur Tai Chi instructor, in spite of Stark’s warning that he’s a terrible student. He’s not kidding about that, or maybe it’s that Bruce is a shitty teacher – either way he’s forgotten the subtlety of each of these poses, how long it took him to master them himself when he was still the student.

Then Stark suggests, _Like, go ahead and move me where I’m supposed to be_ , and Bruce is momentarily floored. This isn’t something that happens, ever. People don’t look at the guy who’s famous for having such major anger issues that they turn him into a kind of anthropomorphic rage giant and say, _hey, why don’t you go ahead and touch me, I’m sure that’s totally safe._

Bruce places his hands on Stark’s arm as if the other man might be made of glass, might shatter at the slightest overapplication of pressure, and he guides the arm into the right position for the form. There’s zero resistance. Stark is so cooperative it’s like posing a toy, like Stark is some kind of life-size action figure to be played with.

Bruce hesitates for half a second and then moves his hands to Stark’s waist, again with the barest application of pressure, and encourages a slight turn of hips to get his body aligned correctly. It’s such a light touch, barely there at all, but it’s enough that he can feel flesh give a little under his fingers and the end of Stark’s ribs against his thumb, the spot where the hill of his belly starts pressing up on the flat of his palm.

The hyperawareness doesn’t shock him. He hasn’t touched another person in a non-medical context in so long he can’t even put a date to it, just knows it was sometime before the exposure, prior to irradiation. It makes sense that his hands are sensitive to all of Stark’s contours, that the technical names of bone structures and muscle groups spring to mind like a reflex as his fingers glance over them.

It isn’t until the sixth pose that he experiences a brief moment of panic when, hands lightly pressed again against Stark’s waist, his body rebels against letting go.

It feels like far too long, awkward seconds ticking away as Bruce argues furiously against all these really interesting suggestions his skin and heart and collective nervous system are suddenly making about all the different ways he could touch Stark, experience this other body, if only he doesn’t remove his hands, if instead he slides and presses and –

He pries his hands off and thank god Stark doesn’t seem to have noticed that anything important just happened. Bruce breathes carefully, complimenting Stark’s progress and suggesting they move on to getting some work done.

~*~

Bruce’s theme song is contingency and control. It’s the lullaby he sings with his conscious mind to keep his subconscious from doing anything outrageous or stupid that could get his cover blown and people killed. The contingency is necessary for being prepared; the control is vital to ensure the contingency plans never have to get too desperate or extreme.

Control is an illusion – Bruce understands this better than most people – but the maintenance of the illusion is absurdly, achingly important. If he can fool his own mind he's well on the way to fooling others, to creating the atmosphere of security that will keep him safe and them alive.

Bruce is not entirely comfortable with the effects that Stark's presence is having on his carefully tended control.

It's as if that first accidental prolonged touch awakened something that had been sleeping deep inside of his subconscious, and now he's hypersensitive to _everything_. Stark smiles at him and Bruce's heart pounds. Stark compliments him and he's reduced to stammering. Stark holds patiently still as Bruce directs him through new forms and it's all Bruce can do to internally scream  _shut up_ at his ever more insistent body which keeps clamoring for  _more_ , more skin or pressure, any kind of touch -  _every_ kind of touch - 

 _It can't happen_ , Bruce argues against the plaintive whining of his baser biology. _Ever._ He’s not even sure if Stark is interested in men, if there’s any merit to the rumors that circulate every so often when it’s a slow day for actual news. Anyway, it’s a moot point entirely. Intimacy of any kind is dangerous. _Bruce_ is dangerous.

...but just how dangerous?  In numbers?

It's nothing more than professional curiosity (he tells himself very firmly) that inspires him to build a sort of personal Geiger counter out of spare equipment while Stark is out of the lab taking a break after hours of nonstop phone calls. He wants to see if intimate touch is even possible for someone with his level of irradiation. When the words _just in case_ echo in the back of his mind, he turns up the knob on his theme music.

_Contingency. Control._

Stark never has to know. Not about the way Bruce’s pulse threatens to race every time their skin touches, or the way Stark’s laugh and his eyes and his _smell_ linger in Bruce’s mind even after he shuts off his senses.

Not that Bruce’s radiation levels are low enough that he could touch Stark over and over again without hurting him.

Compartmentalization, he tells himself, tries to assert the word calmly to a brainspace that's getting more chaotic by the hour. _Compartmentalization_. He can let his imagination run freely here, sweating alone against the sheets of the small bed in the room SHIELD has assigned to him, so that in the morning he can step out to face the world and the work and leave all the excess _,_ useless, stupid baggage behind. Here, as he tries to drift off to sleep, he can let his thoughts fill with the soft glow that reaches through layers of fabric – how bright would it be, Bruce wonders, if Stark were shirtless? How deep is it set? What would it feel like, to carry around so much metal as a part of you? What would it feel like under his fingers?

In the safety of his mind, Bruce puts himself back in the lab, coaching Stark through White Crane Spreads Wings with his hands settled on his waist, and this time he doesn’t let go. He runs his hands upward, counting ribs, then around to measure the muscles of Stark’s back and shoulders. He trails back down, feels the rise and fall of Stark’s breathing, the dip below the small of his back, before returning to his waist and using his hold there to pull Stark closer and explore his mouth with his own. Outside of his mind he brings the back of a hand to his lips, takes the skin gently between his teeth to muffle the wet panting that’s escaping from him just _thinking_ about this –

And god he’s pathetic to be coming undone so easily, but Stark shines beautiful and bright and he practically _breathes_ sexual energy whether he knows it or not. Or maybe Bruce is imagining that, maybe that’s just the way Stark looks and feels through the cloud of his own desire. Considering Stark’s sexual proclivity is part and parcel of his fame, it’s hard to say. Whatever the case he's incredibly self-assured, so comfortable in his own skin that his confidence is borderline contagious. Bruce hates the way it affects him, the way Stark’s bravado lures him into a sense of security he knows he can’t afford to feel. The effort of fighting that power is exhausting. Stark’s smile is as warm and genuine as the obvious respect he hides between jokes and gibes, and Bruce is getting so tired of fighting anyway.

He imagines slipping his fingers under the hem of Stark's shirt, tracing over warm skin and soft fuzz before moving up further to investigate the places where metal interacts with flesh – and there his imagination completely fails him. The reactor is such an anomaly that even his medical background isn’t enough to create a realistic image. All he can be certain of is the contrast, the unrelenting smooth texture next to soft, pliant skin, and as he paints himself a mental picture of what that would be like to touch he moves his other hand down between his legs and strokes himself.

He’s so turned on and oversensitive that his whole body convulses at the first slight brush of his own fingers, and he bites harder against his hand to subdue the sound that tries to fall unbidden from his lips. He wraps his fingers tight around the length of his cock and takes himself in hard, slow strokes, mental fetters falling away as he lets himself feel, long for, _want_.

He's a little afraid of his own sex drive, since the accident. Like so many other parts of him it doesn't seem to be entirely _his_ anymore; it's deeper and darker and not so easy to guide into compliance as it once was.  He still can - it's easier to master than some of the other forces that make up the storm constantly brewing inside, easier to put a damper on than rage or guilt - but he doesn't want to let it off the short leash.  This feels dangerous, letting himself fantasize like this. It's been a long time.  Not since he's touched himself, he's done that often enough for the relief or for the sort of phantom happiness that the haze of orgasm creates, but it's been actual years since he thought of any specific person while he did it.

It might be dangerous. It might be wrong. Disrespectful. But the pleasure and the pressure are building and he's not willing to stop, and he is without question a monster and the memory of Stark's body makes it feel so much better.

I am not a good person, he reminds himself. I have no reputation left to destroy. This is the very least...

But there's something he realizes as he's saturated with equal portions of pleasure and shame, something that's a twisted kind of unselfish. He wants more than the pressure of Stark's hands on his skin. So much more. He wants to say thank you – for sympathy and friendship, however briefly offered. He wants to bring Stark to ecstasy.

Instantly the script in his imagination changes - another kiss, warm and deep, as he backs Stark up against one of the tables in their shared workspace and pushes him down with careful ferocity, fingers nimbly undoing his fly before shoving clothing out of the way. Or maybe they’re both naked, this is his head and there’s no reason for them not to be except that the thought of so much skin pressed up against his is almost too much to bear. He gasps against his hand as his cock pulses between his fingers and mentally he puts their clothes back on.

But he imagines wrapping his hand around Stark, just the way his fingers are wrapped around himself. He imagines that what he feels with each stroke belongs to Stark, that it's given instead of received. The tremor when he twists his wrist pulses through Stark's body. The beads of moisture that wet his fingers are not his own.

_You've been so kind to me. No one who knows what I am is kind to me, not anymore. And if I could - if it was what you wanted - I'd give you this. I'd give you everything._

Behind his closed eyes he sees Stark clench his own eyes shut, mouth parted, hands seeking out Bruce and grasping wherever they can. He imagines the sound of his name – _Doctor Banner!_ – in that gorgeous mouth. And it’s easy, so easy, because he’s heard Stark say his name now many times, each repetition of the words sending a pulse of warmth straight through him.

Recalling the way his name sounds in Stark’s voice wipes his brain of fantasy and fills it with real, true memories. Stark asking him questions. Getting up in his face – _Nothing? …you really have got a lid on it, haven’t you?_ Emoting pure untethered rage at hearing how little choice Bruce had at being brought in for the project, all the anger Bruce wishes he could let himself show. Laughing at something Bruce said, wide smile with perfect teeth, big brown expressive-as-fuck eyes crinkling and Bruce spills out into his fist as his whole body thrums with pleasure, rolling forward to stifle his cries in his pillow.

For a few moments his mind is a vacuum of bliss, before the waves subside and he's left shivering in a state of isolation that throbs like a wound. He wants more than any and all things to be held, to feel a pair of warm arms encircling him and holding him close.

It's ok, though. Easy enough to put aside that wanting as disgust surges back up. He doesn't deserve it. Thinking about a friend like this, giving over to fantasies about someone who works alongside him and actually seems to trust him - it's repulsive.

He rises and walks to the sink, rinses his hand under warm water until it's clean again, and returns to bed. _I'm never doing this again.  Never._

Anger wraps around him like a familiar blanket and allows him to drift into a numb sleep.

~*~

Morning comes. Bruce returns to the lab. Stark comes in later with messy hair, extra coffee in hand, yawning greetings.

Bruce looks at him and the longing almost chokes him. He is selfish, selfish and horrible. And he sets a trap, which Stark stumbles headlong into.

It begins as a simple conversation starter. Stark has been more or less respectful since realizing that Bruce isn’t crazy about discussing his condition. But he’s obviously curious – who wouldn’t be? So Bruce opens the floor, lets him ask whatever he wants while they’re waiting on the results of a scan.

Stark’s questions range from the silly to the serious, and giving him answers is oddly comfortable. Bruce has never felt at ease talking about the powers of metamorphosis/less-than-subtle emotional metaphor/legitimately serous medical condition that he refers to simply and dismissively as “the Other Guy.” Maybe the ease of discussion comes because Stark is so analytically minded, because he makes Bruce feel like his condition is an intriguing phenomenon to be studied rather than a source of fear and confusion.

All that sets Bruce on edge during the conversation, besides the derisive litany of self-disgust playing full-volume in the back of his head, are his own contributions or lack thereof. There’s so much he still doesn’t understand about how his own body works. But even when the unease sets in, he keeps talking, lets Stark see it, doesn’t try to cover up his concern with scientific gibberish or false competence. Stark reacts in a way that knocks the breath right out of Bruce’s lungs.

“You know – when this is over. When we find the cube – and we will – and everything is settled. I could help you. If you want.”

Nobody has ever offered him this. Even SHIELD, with all of their resources, has seen him only as a tool, offered him nothing in return for help but his own freedom – something that wasn’t theirs to take in the first place.

“I have the space and the funding. We could build observation rooms, containment, whatever you need to figure this out. I know it wouldn’t be easy, and we’d have to be careful, but we could do it.”

And they could, Bruce knows they could. If anyone has the money and the resources, it’s Stark, hands down.

“Stark,” he says, “you don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to,” Stark insists, all charm and stubbornness, and he means it. He’s willing to put in the incredible amount of money and time it would take to really figure Bruce out from top to bottom, and Bruce realizes with a jolt as Stark keeps talking that it’s not even just about curiosity. Stark is concerned about Bruce’s peace of mind, sympathizes in his own small but legitimate way with having a body that turns on you. Stark is looking out for him. This man, who was a perfect stranger only three days ago, has decided to have his back, and it’s flooding Bruce with more emotions than he can remember how to handle.

He sets his trap. He brings up the effects the radiation had on his own small human body, the heightened metabolism, the incredible change in heart rate.

“You wanna feel it?” he asks casually, as if he just now thought of it, as if he hadn’t been premeditating a way to get Stark’s hands on him.

“Uh…sure.”

Stark gets up out of his chair and crosses the room, extends his hand hesitantly towards Bruce, and he takes it and guides it to cover his heart, awed as this new type of monster he’s found himself capable of being.

It takes every ounce of control he can muster to hold his breathing at the normal pace so that when Stark’s hand settles heavy and intrigued on his chest his heart is beating at what, for him, is average speed. Which is still enough to shock Stark, who says “Holy shit!” and moves his hand away as if he’s just touched a hot stove. He’s grinning though, fascinated, and he moves back to touch Bruce again, cups his hand tight against skin and muscle, whispers “that’s _insane_ ” and looks right into Bruce’s face.

 _God_ , it’s so hard not to react, not to show Stark how good it feels to be touched like this. Bruce lets himself treasure these few simple moments of feeling Stark’s hand resting on his chest, because he knows this has to stop. This man is breaking him _(no he isn’t, you’re breaking yourself, Banner)_ and Bruce is pushing his luck and his boundaries. He has to fight harder than this. All the same, when Stark drops his arm there’s such an aching sense of _loss_.

But the conversation goes on even if the touching doesn’t, and before he knows it Stark is calling him a hero right to his face. A fucking _hero_. Like every second that Bruce doesn’t lose it and destroy everything within ten miles is some kind of goddamned public service. He looks at Stark, and the other man is so _sincere_ in that casual way of his, and yes, this absolutely has to stop. Bruce needs to construct a stronger wall before he crumbles completely and brings Stark down with him.

Yet when the scanner beeps to announce the results and Stark asks if this means Q&A is over, he finds himself saying, “Eh, what the hell. You got one more?”

“Uh. I do.”

“Shoot, then.” Just one more question. Just a few more seconds of this blessed vulnerability.

“Are you attracted to me?”

Bruce’s clipboard slips from his hands and clatters glaringly loud against the floor. He’s gotten too caught up in his own train of thought. There’s absolutely no way he heard that right.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you were, um, attracted to me,” Stark repeats, all on one quick breath.

Bruce tries to quickly reassemble the broken pieces of his grasp on reality. “What does that have to do with-”

“Please just answer the question, Dr. Banner,” Stark says firmly.

Bruce uses his notes as a distraction, trying to figure out where the hell this is coming from, not daring to hope it can be anything good. “You’re smart, funny, you’re a good-looking guy,” he says generically. “I’m sure most people find that attractive.”

“I’m not asking about most people,” Stark insists, “I-I’m asking about you.”

What the _actual hell_. Bruce takes off his glasses so he can see Stark more clearly. His eyes are wide and uneasy, but Bruce has no idea what they’re attempting to express. “Stark, why are you grilling me on this?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I-I’ve just felt, um, I don’t know, a certain amount of tension-”

“Oh god.” Of course. That’s it. He hasn’t been careful enough, and Stark read his signals and figured it out. _God_ , he’s such a fucking creep for even daring to _imagine_ he could ever have this much. “Look, Stark, if I’ve made you uncomfortable or I’ve been unprofessional in any way I am so sorry. It was never my intention-”

Stark holds up his hands, shakes his head, and cuts him off. “No, Dr. Banner, please. I’m sorry, I’m – my communication is obviously shit right now. I’m not calling you out on anything. If I’m making a big deal out of nothing – if I’ve embarrassed you – then I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not uncomfortable, I’m flattered. Um. Way beyond flattered.”

“…what are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I screwed up. Um.” Stark exhales in a rush amidst his verbal stumbling. “I just wanted to know. If I was crazy or not. If I was imagining-”

“Stark,” Bruce interrupts, trying to get him to articulate what he means in the simplest terms possible. “You wanted to know if I was attracted to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Because, unless I’m completely misreading your cues here, you’re attracted to me. And if given the opening, you would like to do something about it.”

“Oh _god_ yes,” Stark says in a breathy rush, and Bruce swears that for the briefest of moments his heart actually stops.

Stark isn’t confronting him because of his unprofessionalism. He genuinely wants to know if his _own_ attraction is reciprocated.

…Stark wants him.

Ah, _fuck_ , he’s not strong enough for this.

Whatever feelings Stark has for him, they have to be incredibly misguided. Some kind of IQ-based infatuation, probably, from the shock of meeting someone on his own level of genius, and _Jesus_ , that’s such a self-congratulatory thing to be thinking.

Anyway, it just doesn’t matter.

He wants this too much.

All his well-tended control can do for him right now is prevent him from pulling Stark to the floor and rubbing against him as he tears every single inch of fabric off his body. He has to do _something_ , to touch him somehow, before he has some kind of total meltdown. He crosses the room, jolting Stark out of his fog of embarrassment, and takes his chin gently, _so_ gently between his hands so he can press a kiss onto his mouth.

It’s the simplest of intimate touches but it feels sostupidly good. He wants to keep going, to kiss Stark harder and deeper and possibly for the rest of his natural life, but he backs off instead to check on Stark’s reaction…and Stark is a mass of teeth and wrinkles blurred by Bruce's lack of glasses, unabashedly grinning like this is the best day of his life. He leans in and brushes his nose against Bruce’s. Bruce watches Stark’s eyelashes flutter closed against his cheeks, not willing to shut his own eyes, not just yet, and Stark gives him a kiss in return, the smallest, softest touch of lips on his. It’s given freely, entirely of his own will, and this gives Bruce the confidence to let his own eyes close.

Bruce kisses Stark like this over and over until it becomes a sort of dangerous game he’s playing with himself, dancing on the edge of total recklessness, suppressing the urge to take Stark hard in his arms and kiss him breathless. Then there’s a nip of teeth on his bottom lip, and his control takes a sudden violent hitch. He swallows a moan and sucks Stark’s own lip into his mouth, pulling back slowly until they’re separated again before opening his eyes. _God_ , he’s never seen Stark like this, never outside of his imagination – there’s a flush creeping into his face and his breath is shallow, and then he opens his eyes to reveal dilated pupils and Bruce _really_ wants to let go, to stop thinking for a while and just _feel_ this, and he pushes his forehead against Stark’s and holds his gaze.

“Is this really ok with you?” he asks, because he has to make sure; he’s so drenched in emotion and sensation and sheer pulsing _need_ that he doesn’t trust himself to discern reality. “You…you want this?” Maybe this was as far as he dared to push. It might not be too late to turn back, to laugh it off as two underchallenged geniuses goofing around.

But Stark whispers laughter and says " _yes_ " as if it were preposterous to think he would give any other answer. He tightens his grip on Bruce’s hips and pulls him in so that their bodies are pressed together, and oh _g_ _od_ he can feel how hard Stark is. Which is comforting, because his own erection passed subtlety about sixty seconds ago. He slides one hand to Stark’s lower back and tangles the other in his hair before crashing their mouths together.

He can’t quite believe this is actually happening. He feels outside of time, a little bit outside of himself. In any other circumstances the rate at which his control is slipping away would terrify him senseless, but Stark is all strength and exhilaration and he lets himself flow with it. Everything up here has been so bizarre and awful, except for this – and as Stark’s lips part for him and he sinks deeper into the kiss he makes the decision to fucking _enjoy_ this and not squint too closely or put it through a hard line of questioning.

At least not right now, not while he’s kissing someone like this and being kissed _back_ with steadily increasing enthusiasm, not while his hands are finally resting firm against skin that feels blessedly cool against his own overheated body, not while he’s determined to keep pulling them closer together until they’re completely infused with one another’s scent – and then Stark pushes him away.

That sudden rejection would make him fall apart, lose every jot of confidence he’s gained so rapidly in the last few seconds, if it wasn’t for the way Stark’s mouth forms around his name.

 _Bruce_.

His real name. His favorite one.

And Stark’s just afraid that the Director might have cameras on the lab. Which is a legitimate fear, and probably not without just cause, but Bruce realizes he doesn’t care. He says as much, out loud, and tries the taste of Stark’s first name out in his own mouth.

 _Tony_.

He likes the way it feels.

It says something, it really does, about how much control Bruce has relinquished these past few minutes that it’s Stark – _Tony –_ who gets them safely out of the crew’s field of vision, tucked away in the closet where extra lab supplies are stored. It’s Tony who brings up safety and walks the two of them through boundaries, who smacks a hand to his forehead and bemoans the lack of condoms. And that makes Bruce freeze up briefly – not so as Tony would notice, or at least he hopes – as his brain melts into a small puddle and then quickly comes back together.

_You would…you want to…you’d let me – you’d do that?_

It’s way too dangerous, he’d never try it at either end in a thousand years, but just the idea that Tony was even _thinking_ about it makes Bruce want to shake some sense into him and kiss him at the same time. Tony’s sense of self-preservation is remarkably awful. So Bruce lays down the most important rule – _no pain_. He has no idea how much would be enough to trigger a transformation, and he doesn’t want to find out. He’d been afraid that even this might be too much, this kind of kissing, this intensity of touch, but the Other Guy is nowhere to be found. The voice of reason is howling away like anything in the back of his mind about how idiotic he is, but there’s so much pure joy rushing through him that it’s easy to tune out. He can’t remember the last time he felt so far removed from anger.

Tony’s resolve is starting to run out now that they’ve covered all the important basics. His arms are around Bruce’s waist and his palms are cupping his ass, fingers kneading hard in a way that makes shivers shoot up Bruce’s spine. His pupils are blown out so Bruce can hardly see a trace of brown, and his voice is a deep sexy-as-fuck growl of a whisper –

_I can think of **nothing** I wouldn’t be willing to let you do to me right here, right now._

With those words burning into him, Bruce pushes Tony back against the wall and surrenders completely. There’s no room left in his head anymore for worry; it’s too full of the smell of Tony’s sweat, too preoccupied with the hard press of his hips and the soft, breathy sounds he makes when Bruce starts to give his neck some attention, wet kisses and gentle nips of teeth. Tony says his name again, whispers it to him as clever fingers untuck his shirt and smooth over the skin of his lower back. He laps his tongue over Tony’s throat to taste the tremor of his pulse, then bites down as hard as he can without causing pain. Tony actually cries out, a sharp, tortured little noise that makes all of Bruce’s muscles clench. It makes sense that Tony would be vocal – it’s not like he ever stops running his mouth under any other circumstances – but Bruce is still pleasantly surprised by it, lets out a responsive groan into Tony’s skin.

His hips rock forward, seeking more contact, effectively pinning Tony to the wall. Tony’s fingers slide higher under his shirt, encouraging him to press in closer even as they remind him that he can do this too, slip his hands beneath the thin layer of Tony’s t-shirt, up and up until his fingertips brush against metal.

It’s smooth and unyielding, just like he imagined. Also different. Warmer. He runs a finger along the bottom half of the circle, feeling that hard edge right up against soft flesh as he keeps mouthing at Tony’s neck. Tony whimpers gently in contrast to the insistent grind of his hips, and Bruce wants to rip his shirt off right there, wants to stare and touch and kiss and lick. He settles for sliding over to a nipple instead, pinching the sensitive skin between finger and thumb until Tony moans and digs his nails into Bruce’s back.

 _God,_ the delicious sting of that scratch, the pressure against the inside of his leg, he’s burning, burning, the two of them catching fire together as the most beautiful, _desperate_ sounds keep falling from Tony’s lips. Was it always like this, being wanted by someone? Was it this _good_ , before, but all that time and distance made him forget? Or is Tony really something special, all that frank, earnest desire spilling out until Bruce feels drunk on it, wants nothing so much as to get him naked and take _everything_ that’s offered, every last thing Tony’s willing to give him –

And ok, he needs to calm the fuck down. Deep breaths. It’s not anger, not even close, but there’s a kind of frustrated hunger that’s a few steps too close to green-tinted for comfort. Bruce steadies himself even as he brings a hand down to open Tony’s fly, offering him a few solid strokes through thin fabric to relieve the pleading in his voice. He wants _more_ , more of Tony, but he doesn’t want to get completely swept up, wants to keep at least some kind of tenuous handhold on self-control, and then as he strokes he hits on the perfect compromise.

Grinning, he leans in to whisper a promise before tugging Tony’s pants and underwear down and falling to his knees.

“Oh,” Tony gasps, “oh holy _shit_.”

Tony’s cock is flushed and point-of-no-return hard, and Bruce knows if it doesn’t get some attention soon there’s a good chance Tony will be achy and maybe a little nauseous. But there’s no risk of that happening; Bruce’s entire focus has narrowed down to exactly two things: making Tony come and trying not to get too worked up while he does it. Which maybe looks like an uncomplimentary task set, but he finds himself surprised at how calm he is as he begins slowly, tasting and teasing. Feeling Tony’s exertion as he tries to keep himself still, lets Bruce take the lead, which is deeply flattering and also incredibly hot. This is exactly what he wanted, to offer himself up in a way Tony can enjoy, to exchange pleasure for support. And he’s _getting what he wants_. It’s a rare, sweet kind of satisfaction, one that he can easily sink into as he wraps his mouth tighter and slides forward and _enjoys_.

Tony is the loudest person he’s ever had like this, and it might be funny if it wasn’t so heartbreakingly beautiful to listen to the sounds he makes, the whimpers and moans, the way he whispers and then shouts Bruce’s name. His cock is so blisteringly hot that Bruce can feel it, a dull warmth on his tongue even against the incredible heat of his own mouth. The smell of him – that’s what lust smells like, savory and warm, intoxicating; it teases Bruce’s nose on the tips of Tony’s hair with each slide. And the taste, heavy on his tongue, warm skin and sweat and salty hints of pre-cum – Tony’s a complete feast for the senses and it’s _perfect_.

Bruce’s own cock strains painfully against his pants and he takes one hand back and strokes himself as best he can through the layers of fabric, just to shut up some of the neediness radiating off of his own body. It’s good, it helps, nicely compliments all the other sensations going on: hard floor against his knees, warm cock hitting the roof of his mouth, Tony’s hands scrabbling and gently tugging through his hair. Bruce hums contented pleasure and savors the moan he gets in reply. He flicks a glance up to Tony's face and basks in the combination of awe and adoration. He might let it go to his head - well both of them, really - just a little.

Bruce slides one hand up and around, running fingers against Tony’s ass and squeezing _hard._ Tony’s own self-control shatters as his hips rock forward and he pushes in, and ok, there it is, that’s the threshold for both of them, neither one of them wants to hold back any longer, so Bruce takes him down as deep as he’ll go.

Tony comes in a warm, salty rush of fluid, making the most exquisite sound yet. Bruce sucks and swallows and takes in all of it; it’s somehow strangely important to him that none of Tony’s cum ends up on the floor. There’s dampness spreading across the front of Bruce’s pants, which means that at some point he ejaculated in that unsatisfying way that comes from getting way too excited and doesn’t result in anything even close to an orgasm. But Tony’s all weak-kneed and sliding down the wall, looking at him like he’s the greatest thing ever invented, and so if Bruce needs to change pants after this he _really_ doesn’t care, and he leans in and kisses Tony to give him a taste of himself.

~*~

Tony’s intent on returning the favor – “Fifty times over. With interest” – and that night he takes Bruce into his bed.

Granted, it’s Bruce who pushes Tony down into it. And it’s really only a couple shallow steps up from a cot. Bruce is grateful they’re both relatively small, because if either one of them had the height and breadth of Steve or Thor this would never work. All the same, there’s an old-fashioned part of him that reacts so strongly to this, to being invited to share a bed, however small.

Tony hasn’t lost any of his earnestness from the morning, and any worries Bruce has that they won’t be able to sustain the spell they were under back in the lab vanish quickly away into nothing under the expert ministrations of Tony’s fingers and mouth. He does all kinds of enticing little experiments on Bruce, testing diverse applications of pressure all across his neck and shoulders and nerve-packed ears, and damn if it isn’t the best partner work Bruce has ever had the privilege to participate in.

_How do you like it, Dr. Banner?_

They’re both naked so quickly and it _still_ doesn’t feel fast enough, every second of cloth sliding over skin a small eternity until finally their clothes are all piled in disheveled heaps across the floor and he can get a good long look at the jewel blazing away in the center of Tony’s chest. It’s bright like a sun, washing both of them in blue-white light against the darkness of the room, and it looks impossibly deep, like Tony’s got to be missing a sizable fraction of his sternum, and even the medically driven fascination and concern regarding the arc reactor aren’t enough to distract him from, well, everything else. All the other pieces that make up Tony Stark, the gorgeous combination of hard and soft. He wants to put his mouth on every inch, cover him with open-mouthed kisses, feel the toned muscle protected by rolls of flesh on his tongue. Jesus, those arms alone, he could fucking be inspired to poetry, they’re enough to give even the Other Guy a run for his money.

_Just tell me…_

Bruce has had the kind of life, for better or worse, that kills off early any kind of nudity-based self-consciousness, but he still feels gaunt and underfed compared to Tony. Hell, with a metabolism like his it’s difficult to be anything but underfed, especially with years of living in a sort of perpetual motion. Fortunately Tony doesn’t seem to mind, at least not if the kissing and grinding and _tickling_ – shit, the guy really does have a death wish – are any indication.

_…tell me, and I’ll do it…_

They’re naked, lying together on their sides face-to-face in Tony’s stupid-small bed, and Tony draws circles with the pads of his thumbs across Bruce’s cheeks as he reminds him, “You know…you still haven’t told me how you want me to make you come.”

Bruce trembles, his whole body spasming in the only logical physical response to hearing words like those. It’s not just the idea of _make you come_ , of his first assisted orgasm in he doesn't really want to think about how many years– it’s someone saying _tell me what you want._

_Tell me, and then let me give it to you._

There is hatred and anger in Bruce, always, and it's loud even now with sentiments that frankly have no fucking place in Tony Stark's bed, with ideas like _You don't deserve this, you are unworthy, unworthy of touch or affection, nobody like you should ever be treated like this -_

But the answer he has for Tony is louder, because his skin is screaming with it.

_Use your hands. Touch me._

_I want…I want to be touched. I want it to be you._

_You don't deserve -_

_I - don't - care!_

_Those hands all over me, every inch of my skin, all of it, I need it, just touch me, please…!_

He takes in a breath and says it out loud.

And Tony gives.

One hand slides under Bruce to his lower back and rests easy there, anchoring him, while with the other Tony draws one last tight circle over his cheekbone before gently moving down and tracing the line of his neck with two fingers.

Bruce’s eyelashes and heart flutter in tandem. He tries too late to suppress a breathy huff of a sigh. The corner of Tony’s mouth quirks and he presses a little harder, lowering his eyes to where his own fingers brush slowly up and down the column of Bruce’s throat. Bruce is so grateful for this simple gesture - if Tony looked him in the eye he would crack.

Two fingers turn to four, detouring to the nape of his neck, to the place where his hairline stops, and offering gentle strokes that turn slowly into scratches. He dips his head into the touch with a deeper purr of a sigh, less self-conscious, briefly soothed by the comforting feel of fingers in his hair. But then they trace back over his neck, this time with an added thumb dragged across the line of his jaw, and Tony's whole hand comes to rest on his throat with the softest, most non-threatening of squeezes.

Bruce's heartbeat skyrockets, hammering at a speed that would be disastrous for anyone else. He bites back a vulnerable, embarrassing sound and tries to focus on breathing normally. He's so sensitized that he can feel everything, every nick and callus, the scars from dozens of small cuts and soldering burns.

 _Control control control_ don't let him see how important this is -

Tony's fingers dance down over his collarbone, playing into the hollow created by the angle of Bruce's body, the space between jutting bone and shoulder muscle. From there he reaches around to squeeze Bruce's shoulder and _damn_ that's good, everything back there is all stress and tension from the last four days, hell, the last four _years_. Bruce's body stretches and hums without even bothering to ask for permission, but Tony seems to appreciate the response, fingers tightening and kneading in a light massage.

Bruce allows himself a little growl of pleasure, because he knows Tony will like it and also because the pressure of a skilled hand working out a few of the less extreme knots feels _nice_. Tony gives a little _tssch_ of expelled air, an audible smile, and his hand picks up speed as it travels down his arm. The light brushes of touch are so close to tickles that Bruce can't help but shiver against the covers, his skin prickling into goosebumps in the wake of Tony's fingers.

Tony increases pressure once he reaches the wrist, sliding his hand to cover Bruce's own. Bruce spreads his fingers so that they can knot together with Tony's, and suddenly they're holding hands in a room that seems to have gone terribly silent; Bruce's breath seems like a roar in the air surrounding him. Tony squeezes and Bruce looks up - it feels just like that, like cause and effect - and Tony's eyes are shining in the dark, his face the closest Bruce has ever seen to humble. He's on fire, Bruce can see and _feel_ how hard he is, but there's no frustration or impatience there in his features, just genuine enjoyment. He looks as if there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing than touching Bruce all delicious and slow like this, reading him with his hands as if he has all the time in the world, and Bruce realizes with a jolt that this is _real_ , that Tony Stark does exactly what Tony Stark wants whenever he can, and by some unearthly miracle he's decided that what he wants is whatever Bruce asks for.

Bruce swallows hard, feeling the visible bobbing of his throat. You are not going to lose it, he instructs himself sternly, you are not going to give away how catastrophically important this is and you are _absolutely_ _not_ going to cry -

And then Tony slides out of Bruce's hold on his hand and presents him with the really beautiful distraction of dragging first fingers then nails up over the sensitive palm and wrist. Bruce starts making noises. His own hands dart forward to palm at Tony's waist, trying to pull him in closer. Tony sucks in a reverent, excited breath and Bruce sees his own desire reflected in Tony's eyes just before he lunges forward to kiss him.

Tony digs his hand out from under Bruce to trace both sets of ribs, grab his hips, cup his chest, darting from place to place as if he can't decide where he wants to touch Bruce first, like he's despairing at having only two hands. But each time he decides on a new spot he goes back to that same languid, worshipful pace, never once breaking the kiss. It's a really good kiss, slow and deep, lots of motion, and Bruce can't help but get ahold of the back of Tony's head, snaking fingers through his hair to make it even deeper, hungrier, turning up the heat between them until it's almost unbearable. Tony's thumbs press in sudden and surprisingly rough on his nipples and he's always been sensitive anyway but right now, _fuck_ , it feels like nothing he has words for, he can only gasp and writhe and try to fit more of Tony into his hands and his mouth. He feels Tony's smirk blend into their kiss and like the fucking evil genius he is he pinches the pebbled flesh on Bruce's right side and twists.

Oh god, Bruce is completely past embarrassment at the noise he makes, he's too grateful and joyful and _ready_ for embarrassment about that or any of the subsequent sounds that burst out of him as Tony teases, teases _on purpose_ , running the flat of his hand down Bruce's stomach over and over, always just a _little_ lower each time. He takes a break from the kissing just to look at Bruce, to smirk into his desperate face and nudge his askew glasses back into place, and Bruce wonders if Tony's going to make him beg and is all too willing to do it before Tony actually loses patience first, gives each of his thighs a quick, soft squeeze before finally, _finally_ running his hand along the full length of Bruce's erection.

Bruce moans and says some words with his mouth that are hopefully appreciative and coherent; most of his focus is centered on the way his entire lower half pushes forward into that contact, then on the wonderful continued friction as Tony grasps and strokes. The feeling is relief itself, raw and basic and so emotionally safe - he can lose control now and it will be _normal_ , it will be exactly what Tony expects and he'll probably enjoy it almost as much as Bruce will. He pulls Tony into another kiss and lets his world grow simultaneously concise and infinite.

~*~

He wakes with a vague sense of panic, the same pulsing spring-loaded fear he always feels coming to in an unfamiliar place. He takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is, then why he's there, and realizes last of all that the thing that woke him up was the motion of Tony Stark shifting in his sleep.

_Holy. Holyfuckingshit._

_...what have I done?_

Reckless, impulsive, stupid, _beyond_ stupid - what the hell has he worked so hard for eliminating these words from his personal vocabulary if this is what he does the second he lowers his defenses?

_Oh god, I've made a huge mistake._

He doesn't do this, he doesn't just fall into bed with people, it's incredibly dangerous, it's - not to even mention unprofessionalism, Jesus Christ, what's _happened_ to him?

The panic is speeding up his heart and his breath and he lays back flat against the pillow, trying to stay ramrod-still, not to do anything that will wake the sleeping form next to him. Control, he reminds himself. _Control_. No real disasters yet. No transformations. No one hurt. You can fix this. You can get through this.

_You're disgusting._

He swallows hard and clenches his eyes back shut. He knows it's true.

_So fucking horny and selfish that you put someone else at risk. Disgusting. You're less than human. A goddamned animal._

Touch is important, he reminds himself, incredibly important for well-being, for mental health -

_Important enough to risk someone's life? Is it that fucking important?_

He wanted to. He's so kind to me. He _wanted_ to.

_You don't deserve kindness. Look at what you do with it. You could've **killed him.** You still could._

I...I know. _I know._

He stutters out a loud breath, and Tony murmurs and shifts again but doesn't quite wake up. He needs to be quieter. He'll let Tony sleep, and apologize in the morning. Explain that it was all a mistake. He'll try and sleep now too, there's no point staying awake like this, it's just that there's so much light in his eyes suddenly, Tony must have pushed a blanket down, and without thinking he turns to his side and looks -

Tony, asleep.

An intimate study of light and shadow, dimly lit contours, the small star embedded deep in his chest. One arm curled under his pillow, the other draped over his stomach. Lashes dark against his cheeks, brow soft and relaxed, mouth open, breath slow and deep.

Tony is sleeping peacefully at his side. Feels safe enough. Trusts him enough. And fuck, fuck, fucking _hell_ , Bruce has never seen anything so beautiful.

He remembers, now, that when he first fell asleep Tony's arms were wrapped around him. I _really_ don't want to leave, he had admitted, already dozy with afterglow. So don't, Tony had replied.

He remembers Tony's hands, bringing him to the edge, pulling him over. Coming all over him, and Tony treating it like a balm, a blessing. Making him feel desirable. Worthwhile.

Tony's eyes locked on him as he touches himself. Rubbing off between Bruce's legs, warm and wet and achingly hard. Tony's breath on his shoulder, fingers digging into his hips, the sound he makes when he comes.

Words gently spoken in the dark, thanks and explanations and apologies and promises.

The idea, so unfamiliar and so precious, of planning the future several steps ahead.

Bruce stares at Tony, and where fear would normally belong there's a slow-spreading warmth. There's hope where shame should be. So awful, he thinks, and still not  _enough_ of a monster. Not enough not to care.

I've gotten high on your smile and your laughter. I've tasted your mouth and known your body. And now I care.

He brings two fingers to his mouth and gives them a long kiss, then touches them carefully to the circle of light.

_It's part of me now.  Not just armor.  It's a - terrible privilege._

"Idiot," Bruce mouths silently.

And eventually he slips back into sleep.


End file.
